Room to Breathe

Long I Stood

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;     5

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,     10

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.    15

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.   20

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920 [1916].

Room to Breathe

Air in a Hurry

I know wind. I know blustery wind gusting to fifty miles an hour. I know days of sustained breezes. I know winds that bring in the rain storm and those that help to move it on its way. I know wind that rips shingles from your roof. Wind that wakes you in the dead of night. Wind that blows so softly that I forget for a minute how entirely windy it is here.


If I have gained anything from living on the high plains in Wyoming, it has been the intimate relationship I have with all manner of gust, current and draft. I will not claim to love it. Or even like it. There are days, frankly, when I barely tolerate it. More days than not, the wind will be blowing. More days than not, I ask myself why I live here.

There are, I suppose, some benefits from wind. I’m sure it has a pretty critical role in maintaining global- atmospheric-pressure something or other. We probably need it for that purpose. I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the wind is harvested here to make electricity. Giant white wind turbines dot the horizon, slowly turning their blades, like sentinels protecting the open prairie.

Sometimes, I will admit, I love the fragrance of the wind as it slips off the grass covered plains. It smells clean and sweet. There are no smoggy days here. There is little humidity. On soft, breezy days, I feel like I am climbing in to a bed made with freshly washed sheets—crisp and new.

I should mention that there is really nothing like standing on an open piece of land with no buildings, roads, power lines, people—just earth and grass-- and letting the force of the wind cover my entire body. It presses against me, blowing my hair, blasting over my skin, roaring in my ears. As I lean into it, I secretly hope the wind will steal away a few of my sins and maybe a couple of regrets. I watch hopefully as it whisks them into the sky, far away from me. It ought to, you know, do that little thing for me. After all, I live with the wind every day. I know it pretty well. I’m starting to think it knows me.

An apology to my mother

My sister once put a diaper on my one year old son completely backward. I thought it was a cute mistake made by someone who hadn’t changed many, if any, diapers in her lifetime. It wasn’t until a while later that I figured out that she was so sauced she had no idea what she was doing. She was very good at hiding her addiction. Very good. I should have known from her slurred speech and wobbly gait that something more was going on than “strong sleeping pills.”


I didn’t put it together until she was staying in my guest room and answered the bedroom door drunk. She couldn’t even stand. I might have been more understanding, but it was my three year old who was knocking and wanting to see her. I was livid.

I found an empty fifth of vodka in her bag. I had no choice but to put her back in bed and let her sleep it off. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it, though. Not in my home. Not around my children. Even if it was her birthday. I did what any sensible sibling would do; I told my mom. My parents arrived an hour later.

After driving her to a hospital an hour away, my mom told me that she blew a .25 blood alcohol level. It had been hours since her last drink. The fact that she blew that high of a level and was still bantering with the hospital staff astounded me. The legal limit in our state is .08. This wasn’t someone who decided to go on a birthday binge. This was someone who had been using alcohol for a good while.

As in any dysfunctional family, the fallout from the whole event landed on my shoulders. Turned out that, because I was hesitant to have her back as a guest in my house two days later, I was the bad guy. Never mind that she had been wasted around my one and three-year-old sons. Never mind that she had a long history of cruel manipulation with me--her younger sister.

No one will own up to the fact that it was anything other than normal sibling behavior when she would do things like dig her finger nails into my arm to the point that my skin would break and I would bleed . It didn’t matter that she was fourteen and I was nine. Things like this happened nearly every day before my mom moved out, taking my sister with her. That’s normal for siblings, right?

I’m not going for a “my-life-sucked-so-pity-me-please” sentiment here. I just want to make the point that sometimes things happen that forever fracture the relationship between siblings. Perhaps this rift is rooted in the day she told me that if my parents and I didn’t bring back a puppy for her that day, she would kill herself. That’s some heavy shit for a fourth-grader, if I say so myself. Needless to say, she got the puppy.

The divide between us now is so large that I can’t imagine ever wanting to try to mend our relationship. It would be one thing if the drunken disaster was an isolated event, but it wasn’t. It can be added to a laundry list of offenses that cause my chest to fill with slow burning anger.

My choice to distance myself from my sister is not a popular one. I love my mother, but she can wield guilt like a master swordsman. In my mom’s eyes, I am not the victim here. Nor am I the forgiving one. Thing is, I don’t care anymore. I don’t have to. There was never an apology. Not a sincere one anyway. Even if there had been one, an apology without remorse is meaningless. There was never an ounce of remorse.

Don’t get me wrong. I wish my sister the best in life. I hope that she can overcome her addiction and find other ways to fill her vacations. I just never want to see her again.

It may be ugly to say, but I don’t need my sister. I have a crowd of friends, including my brother and other sister, who can diaper my one-year-old just fine. I trust them with my children, and also my heart.  Maybe one day, I will regret my decision, but I doubt it. Some decisions are so deeply felt--are made on the most solid of evidence--that they are never wrought with regret. This rift is one I don’t choose to close and (sorry mom) I’m good with that.

The Beach at Manzanita

A little me time

I don't want to be me.

I need a vacation. Some time away. I need a break from all I should do and be and want. I need time away from the noise and mess and rush. I want to turn off my brain. Turn off my heart. Step away from my guilt and conscience and memory.

I want to escape responsibility…reality…redundancy.

I want to stop the voices in my head.

I want to stop trying to please the voices outside my head. The ones that say try harder, work more and be better. I want to stop trying. I want to stop wasting effort.

I want to experience peace….calm…nothingness.


I want to hear the ocean. I want to feel the breeze. I want the sun to warm my face.

I want my heart to beat slowly. I want my mind to feel calm. I want my body to feel rested. I want to be glad. I want to be real.

I want to me.

Dream On

Last night I dreamt about an old boyfriend. John Beard. He was the first boy who ever held my hand. He made fun of me once for picking my nose. It was fifth grade. I haven't seen him in over twenty years.

Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.

In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.

That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend. 

In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.

What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?

I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.

Kitchen Sink Conversation

“You’re right, you know.”


Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.

“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”

“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”

He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”

“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”

“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”

“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”

“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”

“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.

My Brown Eyed Girl

She is tall, super thin, but beautiful. Her skin is the color of creamy mocha coffee. She wears her black hair short and glossy. Her glasses are modern and big for her fine features. The left lens is cracked from a fight. She refuses to get it replaced. She has on skinny jeans and a tight t-shirt. She walks slowly in her high top tennis shoes. She is not in a hurry to go anywhere.

But when she speaks, she is thoughtful, witty and sharp. She listens to everything I say, taking it in and turning it over in her mind. She responds confidently to my questions. She does not hide any piece of herself.

She believes in the rapture.

She is in a gang. They are her family.

She could do anything she wants with her life. She could go to college. She would excel in law school. She would be a wonderful, wise mother.

When she walks into the room, I pray for her. Open your eyes, I say. When she leaves, I pray again. Don’t go, I say.

Certifiable

Depression. It’s what my doctor calls it. Weakness. Lies. Laziness. Others have called it these things. I have been depressed since I can remember. Each day I am sad, impulsive, tired and weak. I am trapped in a body with limitations. My better judgment arrested. My heart vulnerable.

My mind is convinced that these limitations are of my own doing. I can overcome them if I try hard enough, it says. Do more, act happier; be more dedicated, it commands. I try and try.
My body laughs at my mind for thinking such foolishness. There is nothing I can do to overcome the depression. It weighs me down like a two ton anchor. It lassos my brain and chokes it. I cannot reason the depression away. I cannot will it to end.

I see doctors. More doctors than I care to admit. I pray that the next one will know what to do. They are kind, honest people, who cannot help me. I hope for a magic drug that will restore me to a proper and functioning adult. I hope and hope.

No one believes me. Not my husband. Certainly not my bosses. Not my friends. Sometimes not even myself. No one knows how desperate I am to be believed. To be cared for instead of criticized.

I have children. Beautiful, lively, innocent children. I want to be more for them. I want to offer them all I had as a child. But, at times I am trapped, too burdened, even for them. My body is gelatin. My energy drained. So, I watch them play. I hire help. It is not enough.

I am left to wonder: will they know this illness, too? I pray not. The thought haunts me. Do these genes course through their veins? I pray and pray.

power of positive thinking

I am strong. I am confident. I am talented. I am popular. I am content. I am beautiful. I am successful. I am alluring. I am bold. I am wealthy. I am satisfied. I am a magnet for good things. I am lucky. I am jovial. I am creative. I am rich. I am blessed. I am admired. I am resourceful. I am trendy. I am stunning. I am fortunate. I am tough. I am positive. I am at ease. I am triumphant. I am free. I am interesting. I am outgoing. I am adventurous. I am chic. I am capable. I am powerful. I am witty. I am well-traveled. I am intelligent. I am crafty. I am smooth. I am worldly. I am mysterious. I am conscientious. I am brave. I am accomplished. I am loved. I am loving. I am generous. I am faithful. I am kind. I am sweet. I am saucy. I am exotic. I am…

The Higher You Climb

Yesterday, I would have told you I was blessed. Today, it occurs to me that I am cursed.

On Second Thought

Regret is like a sneaker wave. I am never looking for it, it comes when I least expect it and it drowns me, leaving me sad and sorry for much longer than I would like. I spend a lot of my time thinking about regret. I remember a girl I went to high school once saying “I don’t want to live my life with regret.” She was beautiful, sweet, and the prom queen. So of course I thought, "Yes, me too. I also don’t want regret." Except, I don’t know how to live without it. I don’t know how to avoid it. And I seem to welcome it into my life over and over again.

“If only…” becomes my mantra. My dreams are of whole other lives. I wish upon stars. I slave over my horoscope. I do all of this with the hope that somehow, some person or being or spirit will intervene and rescue me from this life I continue to regret.

I regret decisions instantly and continue to steep in regret until it is so strong, it is nearly unbearable.  I regret purchases. I regret romances. I regret hairstyles. I regret job choices. I regret my geography. I regret friendships--those I made and friendships I did not make. I regret being too honest. I regret lies. I regret indulging. I regret limiting. I regret hurt. I regret joy.

Tonight, I regret. I wonder why I didn’t think about this before. I wonder why I thought this would be different than the other times. I worry that I will never make anything of myself. I am concerned that my poor decision making in the past will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I wonder if I will regret posting this…

Brave New Girl

I had never done this before. I was positive that I was making a fool of myself. Each time I glanced up from my notebook, I caught his eye. The first few times, I thought it a coincidence. After the fourth, I realized he was looking at me. Now, my eyes couldn’t help but wander to his. I took him in. He looked nice, clean, sane. His eyes were dark, almost a chocolate, or at least I thought so from my seat across the room.

I decided to smile. I would smile the next time I looked up at him. Yes. I would try not to blush. I would smile and see if he would come say hello, maybe buy me another cup of coffee. Or at least smile back.

I took a deep breath and stared intently at my notebook. I prepared myself for the newer, more confident me. I would do it. In the next ten seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven…two, one. I raised my eyes. I tossed my hair as I attempted to appear confident and alluring. I stared boldly in his direction with a flirty smirk.

His seat was empty. He was gone.

Pants on Fire

Today I lied to the store clerk. “I grew up on the coast,” I said. “We ate fish all the time.”

In truth, I grew up thousands of miles from either coast. The first time I had shrimp, I was in sixth grade and was having dinner at the neighbors. I thought it chewy and somewhat alien.

Why lie, then? Why deceive someone I will likely never see again and have absolutely no reason to impress?

I have no answers. It is just part of my fabric, I guess. I am a liar. Lies: They roll off my tongue. They come naturally and easily. They set me apart from my miserable, average self.

Perhaps the person I am trying to impress is me. But, perhaps that too is just a lie.

Dawning of a new year

Here I go: another school year begins tomorrow and with it some significant changes. I am happy for the change. I am glad to do work that I feel has more worth. I am ready to feel more fulfilled. But, there are some things I forgot about being a classroom teacher. I forgot how sometimes we get stepped on. I forgot how it is a culture of complaint. I forgot that there is a lack of resources to do our job well. I forgot the feeling that grows inside of me: resentment, confusion, fatigue. I am a different person going into this job than I was many years ago starting my teaching career. I am glad for that. I am glad for the roots I have planted that will allow me to weather more storms and be a better person at the end of it.

I fear that I will get caught up in the negativity. I fear that I will be shunned. I fear that I will be disliked. I am anxious.

I am thrilled about the opportunity I have to try new things. My mind runs constantly with ideas, scenarios and…fear. It sits like a stone under my ribs. It makes it harder to breath. It makes me want to pace around, I am unable to sit still. It becomes a flush on my cheeks, a bad taste in my mouth. It clouds my thinking. It squeezes my heart. I make my eyes feel raw.
When I left last year, I knew something in a way I had never known it before and that was that I need to be free. I need to act and dream and create and do so as my will compels me. Teaching, while rewarding and fulfilling, does not provide freedom. It squashes it under a big heavy boot. Schools have potential for freedom and creativity and transformation, but they continue to squander resources, mismanage people and children and waste their potential on rigor.

Synonyms for rigor: strictness, severity, stringency, toughness, harshness, inflexibility, scrupulousness. Synonyms for creative: inventive, imaginative, innovative, experimental, original, artistic, expressive, inspired, visionary, enterprising, resourceful.

Do we want rigorous schools? Or creative ones? Do we want our students to feel they were held to rigorous standards or creative ones? Do I want to be part of something rigorous or creative? Is it really a choice? Ah well...another year begins.

Slow Good Night

I love the feel of an evening August breeze as it slides past the curtains. Crickets keep time in the backyard. The creek sings a lullaby. The sun sets rose pink over the plains. Voices of children call out as they cling to the last few days of vacation. The sky is one hundred shades of blue and gray. The last of the sunlight lingers on the clouds, saying a slow good night.

The day was warm, but the night breeze is cool. It dances on my neck, the back of my leg. The deep night will turn cold. I will sleep well under the cover of blankets. The sun will rise a bit later in the morning. The day will dawn with reminders of all that must still be done. Brisk fall mornings are when I make up for the lost time of lazy afternoons of summer.

Everything will be crisper in the fall. The air. People’s voices. The sounds of shoes on the sidewalk. All of them will strike with a bit more urgency. People will scurry about preparing for the coming winter. But for now, I sit in the path of the soft wind. I will make mine a slow good night.

Slippery Fish

The world waits. It needs me to do my part. But my head aches and my heart pounds with worry. I feel my breath race out from me. Not enough returns. I want so much. I feel like it is out of reach. I worry that I made mistakes. Too many to count. Why do I panic? Why do I feel as though time is a slippery fish? I cannot grab hold. How long have I barely kept control? So long. Too long. I want peace. I want freedom. I want the life I dream about.

How do I get it? I write. I think this is the answer. I write because writing is a way to make money. It will help me free myself and my family from the hole we have dug. Why else? I write because I want people to look at me the way I imagine they will when I tell them I am a writer—scratch that, an author. I write because I can write well. I have words in my soul. So many words. They pour out of me, even when there is no one to hear them. I have stories. Heartache. Hurt. I can tell stories to which other people can cling. I can tell stories that help other people to make sense of their senseless lives. I will tell the stories that have helped me to know who I am.

But, it is harder than I thought. The world waits. It is not patient. It cannot be ignored. There is little time. There is even less peace. I panic because time swims away. It evades my grasp. When I snatch it back, little pieces at a time, I panic more. I worry that my words are lame. I worry that my stories are lifeless.

Can I do this? Do you believe in me? I ask this one-hundred times a day. Yes. The answer is always yes. It would never be no. But, how? I don’t ask that. No one knows that answer. I ache with longing. Somewhere below my stomach (my gut?) a slow burn continues to stoke itself. It never goes out. It just heats my belly. It causes me to remember. I cannot forget. I cannot give up. I am worried.

I pray for answers. I pray for strength. I pray for peace. I will continue to pray for those things.

A Woman Scorned

I never considered myself a cheater. I never thought I would be the one to have an affair. But then, there are lots of things I never thought I would do.

Dan had been gone for eleven years. I had thought about him often. Where had he gone? What was he doing now? Did he think about me?

The answer was yes. Or, at least that’s what he said when we spotted each other at the coffee shop. I was enjoying a few minutes peace from my life at home with three noisy children. He was just stopping in for a cup before meeting his next client. He was back home. He wasn’t sure for how long.

As we said goodbye, he gathered me into a hug. He smelled of swagger and his suit was crisp beneath my hands. He held me for just a moment longer than I expected. It was all the time I needed to be reminded.

It didn’t take long for things to escalate. But, that’s what anyone who has defiled their marriage says. They also say it wasn’t supposed to happen. They never planned to hurt anyone. But that’s not true. I knew the second I saw his face, older with a few lines, but still familiar and beautiful, that I would give up anything to be with him.

The first time we slept together, my hands shook the entire time. Would he find me beautiful? Would he only see the stretch marks, the wrinkles, the effects of time? Would he love me this time? Would he leave me again?

My husband never once asked where I had been. He never once questioned the phone calls. He didn’t seem to notice how I checked my e-mail every few minutes. I took it as proof that our marriage had faded. No one could blame me for straying. They would see that I only did what I had to do.

I saw Dan every few days at first. We didn’t talk much. He would only have an hour. Maybe two. I took every minute I could get. Each time I left his apartment, I replayed in my mind his touch, his lips, his breath. My heart spun inside me. I was finally awake. Alive.

I started to imagine a life. He would love me, care for me. He would accept my children unquestioningly. A house. Vacations. Eventually a wedding.

The calls didn’t dwindle. The emails didn’t start coming only sporadically. I just stopped hearing from him all together. I called once. Twice. No answer. I didn’t want to seem desperate. I sent an email. It was lighthearted. It implied nothing. Nothing was what I got in response.

Excuses: He was busy. He had left town. He was working up the nerve to ask me to leave my husband.

I stopped checking my email. I stop expecting him to call. My heart sat heavy in my chest.

Regret. Sorrow. Anger.

My husband didn’t notice any of it. He came home each day. He held our children on his lap. He held my hand as we walked. He loves me.

My husband will never know, but now I do.